


to the fella over there with the hella good hair

by boodreaus



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boodreaus/pseuds/boodreaus
Summary: boodreaus:omg imagine jonny and TJ are together this night and as soon as the sirens go off, TJ sprints off in the opposite direction as jonny and has his own meet cuteboodreaus:but literally doesn’t remember it the next dayboodreaus:and that’s the story of how no one knows that tj and jonny each met their future life partners in the aftermath of the same underaged drinking escapadeOr: T.J. meets Tom. Twice.Companion fic toNight Moves by heartstrings.





	to the fella over there with the hella good hair

**Author's Note:**

> This fic probably won't make much sense if you haven't read [Night Moves by heartstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805180), which is infinitely better.
> 
> Title from "Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift.

Ask T.J., and he’ll tell you. None of this was any of his fault at all.

In fact, he might’ve even forgotten the whole incident if it weren’t for Jonny, who takes, frankly, a perverse level of pleasure in rehashing the whole sordid story for every single person they meet and their mother for the next four straight weeks. It’s like every time T.J. turns a corner, there’s Jonny telling someone about how they ran from the cops and T.J. abandoned his very own best friend to certain death in a snowbank.

“People are tired of hearing about it,” T.J. complains, stabbing viciously at the rehydrated cardboard masquerading as flank steak on his plate.

Across the table from him, Jonny winces at the sound of T.J.’s fork tines scraping across the ceramic and says, ruthlessly, “No one’s tired of hearing about it. Except maybe you,” he adds. “Probably because you’re a traitor.”

T.J. shoots Jonny an aggrieved look. That’s really the part that’s unfair, he thinks, because unlike Jonny, T.J. honestly doesn’t even remember what happened.

They went to the bar. He knows that much, at least, because it was a Tuesday, and they’ve been going to Captain George’s for the Tiki Tuesday special every week since the start of the semester, pretty much. Obviously they got drunk — Jonny’s fault, T.J. might add, considering the bartender’s big, fat, massive crush on Jonny, which earns them at least two free shots every single time — and then, walking home through the slush and snow, skidding with breathless laughter across the ice, Jonny tumbled directly on to his ass, falling back with a comedic whirl of arms against the grill of shit-ugly Taurus. It was funny, until the cop turned his lights on, and then all T.J. can remember is the whistle of the wind in his ears as he sprinted away.

Things were already blurry, but everything after his mad dash to safety is a complete and utter blank. The next thing T.J. remembers is waking up in his own twin bed in his and Jonny’s dorm, hugging Jonny’s plastic trash can to his chest and nursing what may go down as the worst hangover of his entire life.

It’s a night that might’ve faded into the haze of all the rest if it weren’t for Jonny’s dedication to its preservation, not least of all because, while T.J. was lost in his own drunken mystery, Jonny was busy meeting, quote, the love of his life.

Jonny talks about his meet cute for weeks, until basically everyone T.J. knows is coming up to him like, hey, I heard you sold Jonny out to the cops.

“Jonny didn’t even get arrested!” T.J. always insists, because it’s true. They just laughed at his dumb ass and left. But apparently that’s beside the point. Whatever. The point is, no one asks him.

 

—

 

On their way to a party that someone who knows someone who Patrick knows is throwing, T.J. can’t help but tell Jonny, reprovingly, “I don’t want to hear about the fucking cops tonight, okay? No I-almost-froze-to-death-because-of-T.J. blah blah blah, okay? Just keep a lid on it.”

He’s already a little bit tipsy from the quick pregame in his and Jonny’s room, slamming three consecutive shots of Fireball as Jonny and Patrick, like, whispered about how much they loved each other or some shit while an episode of Sex Education droned on in the background. It’s making the half-mile hike down Main Street easier at least, the liquor blanketing him in a pool of warmth as his sneakers crunch loudly in the frozen slush. Carefully, he hops up on the curb, spreading his arms for balance, and gives Jonny the evil eye.

Wide-eyed and mocking, Jonny slowly draws his pinched pointer finger and thumb across his lips, and then he gives T.J. the bird.

Patrick, attached to Jonny’s other hand, because somehow they still need to hold hands literally everywhere they go, fucking barf, says, “That story won’t even phase these guys. It’s a house full of lunatics. They probably run from the cops, like, every other day.”

“Who are these people again?” T.J. asks, nearly losing his balance as he winds around a light pole. “And how do you know them?”

As it transpires, Michal, some dude Patrick knows from his freshman year hall, is in the same frat as the guys throwing the party, and generously bequeathed an invite after running into Patrick in the dining hall earlier in the week. T.J.’s not really that bothered, honestly. He would just love to get drunk.

The house they come up to, sequestered in a little cul-de-sac just off Main Street, is a dilapidated little one-story with peeling blue paint on the siding and a piece of cardboard wedged into a window frame with broken glass overlooking the front yard. There’s three cars all buried under a pile of snow wedged into the driveway, and a basketball hoop with the net missing attached to the garage. A handful of guys are smoking on the front stoop, and as T.J., Patrick and Jonny amble up the driveway, one of them calls out, “Five bucks to get in.”

“Michal Kempny invited us,” Patrick says. The guy gives him a blank look, utterly unswayed.

“I am definitely not paying five dollars to come in there,” Jonny announces, which is just as well. T.J. doesn’t even have five dollars. Who carries cash?

“Dude, it’s for the keg,” the guy says, his exasperation evident. “You’re not hot chicks, ergo…” He trails off, waving a hand like, there, self-explanatory.

“Any dudes into dudes?” T.J. asks. The guy blinks at him. “I’m just saying, I’m equal opportunity over here.”

“What if we promise not to drink any of your shitty beer?” Patrick offers with exaggerated patience. He waggles his water bottle, ice rattling against the plastic.

Finally, lips pursed, the guy waves them through, adding, “I better not see any of you even look at that fucking keg, motherfuckers,” as they edge around him through the door.

T.J. shoots him a sardonic thumbs up as Jonny mutters, “Asshole,” using his heel to push the front door closed.

Inside, it’s a little bit nicer than the outside might convey, though not much. There’s not as many people as T.J. might have expected. A group of twenty or so people are crammed into the living room on a pair of faded leather sofas, crowded around what looks like a raucous game of Kings. He can see a pocket of guys playing beer pong at the dining room table, another group shouting over a game of darts, and, as ever, a collection of girls congregated in the kitchen, laughing.

“I’m going to find some beer,” T.J. announces, and almost immediately loses Patrick and Jonny in the crowd as one or the other of them sees someone he knows and they peel off as a unit to go say hi. Thoroughly abandoned, T.J. finds himself navigating all the way to the kitchen, where the keg is wedged in next to the fridge. Throwing a quick look over his shoulder for the keg police, T.J. grabs a plastic cup off the stack on the faded formica counter and fills it to the brim. He takes a considering sip, winces, and then tops it back off.

“It’s the shittiest beer of all time,” one of the girls hanging around says, leaning over to stage whisper conspiratorially. “Like of all time.”

Taking another sip that’s mostly foam, T.J. laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty shitty,” he agrees. “But, hey. It’s beer!” And it’s free.

The girl, who is wearing an outfit utterly unsuited to the snow outside, a pair of skinny jeans that are more hole than fabric and a cropped sweater that shows off a pretty impressive dragon tattoo creeping down her side and into her waistband, smiles. She reaches out to knock her cup against his, a clack of plastic, and turns back to her friends as T.J. floats off to join the party.

The group of guys at the beer pong table are loud, shouting over the din of the rest of the house. One of them, sitting on a stool in the corner, is in the middle of choosing a new playlist, bent over his phone while a dude in a backwards baseball cap leans against his shoulder and makes suggestions. Judging by the incredulity on the face of the one with the phone, they’re not going over well.

Standing at the head of the table, there’s a guy wearing a thin, white undershirt with a huge wet spot on the stomach and a Raptors hat sitting precariously on the top of his head. He is, by T.J.’s estimation, the handsomest dude T.J.’s ever seen with his own two eyes.

The dude’s built like a linebacker: tall, brawny shoulders tapering off into a little waist like Captain America, and a dark, thick beard. T.J.’s contemplating just leaning up against the wall and watching the game like a creep when the dude catches his eye with apparent deliberation and unmistakably waves his hand, gesturing T.J. over.

“Hey,” the guy says when T.J. ambles up, leaning in to be heard over all the noise. “I’m not going to have to carry you home again, am I?”

Then it’s really sort of like a vaudeville slapstick as T.J.’s whole world stutters to an abrupt halt as he attempts to cycle through that question. His first thought is, like, indignation, because does he look that drunk? He’s barely even tipsy, that’s not even fair. Secondly, what?

“Again?” is what he comes out with finally, struck dumb, not least of all because this guy, who seriously is handsome in a vaguely unbelievable, movie star kind of way, is looking at him from about five inches away, and T.J. is literally getting butterflies.

The guy gives him a weird, amused look, and says, with all the practiced rhythm of someone who’s reciting something he’s heard before, “You’re T.J., right? Real name is Timothy, the ‘J’ doesn’t stand for anything, we’re allowed to call you Timothy Jimothy because that’s what seems right?”

T.J. has the strange, uncertain feeling that his mind is literally being read. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I’m just going to be honest, man, I have zero idea who you are or like, how you know this, but can I just say, I am thoroughly freaked out, if that’s what you were going for. You’re, like, really hot for a stalker. Just so you know.”

“I’m Tom,” says the dude patiently. “And it’s pretty rude that this is the thanks I get for literally saving your life, but okay.”

“What?” T.J. demands. “When?”

“Last month,” Tom says, brows furrowing. “You were lying on a bench in a fucking snow storm, dude. Like, I guess I don’t know all that much about hypothermia or whatever but sleeping outside in sub-zero temperatures kind of feels like a shitty idea.”

“Wait,” T.J. says, feeling sort of like his whole world is shifting on its axis. It’s a very surreal sensation. “Last month? My lost night? You saw me?”

Tom stares at him and then says, “Hold on,” fading back to reach out and grab another guy by the shirt tail, yanking him over and hooking an arm around his neck. “Andre,” he says, by way of introduction, and Andre looks at T.J. and goes, “Oh, it’s Timothy Jimothy. How are you, man? I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“Me too,” says T.J. faintly. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

“Explain to him how we saved his dumb ass life,” Tom commands.

Frowning, Andre asks, “Does T.J. not know? You were sleeping on a bench in the middle of a literal snow storm and we took you home, dude. Tom gave you a piggyback ride and you said you wanted to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane. That’s a direct quote,” he adds at T.J.’s audible groan. “Here, I have a video.”

With a feeling approaching something like horror, T.J. watches himself on the screen as he climbs aboard Tom’s admittedly very broad back and then proceeds to wondrously stick his hands all over him, worming an arm down Tom’s jacket and marveling at the state of his abs while Tom and the rest of the guys laugh uproariously. Tom and Andre are both snickering in real life, too, and it doesn’t seem mean but T.J. can’t really tell, what with the haze of mortification and all.

“Dude,” T.J. says feelingly, “I am so sorry. Like — so sorry. You have no idea.”

“No worries, man,” Tom says, clapping him — very firmly — on the shoulder. “We dropped you at your dorm, made sure you weren’t going to drown in your own puke, and split. It was our good deed of the day. Actually,” he adds thoughtfully, “we decided maybe we should leave someone to, like, keep an eye on you, but by the time Ovi thought of that, we’d already locked ourselves out of your room.”

“Do you want to see the video of you moaning while Tom sticks his hand in your back pocket to get your keycard?” Andre chimes in helpfully.

“No,” T.J. says immediately, but Andre shows it to him anyway.

 

—

 

Honestly, T.J.’s not even sure how it happens. One minute, he’s kicking everyone’s ass at beer pong and then the next, he’s in a dark laundry room, using all of his weight to pinion Tom against the wall, pressing up on his toes to stick his tongue as far down Tom’s mouth as he’s physically able.

Maybe Tom took him at his word when he shouted, “Suck it!” after sinking his last shot? Who knows. But T.J.’s certainly not complaining.

Under all the beard and the muscles and the freakish size, Tom is laughably easy to maneuver, sagging helpfully down against the wall and letting T.J. hold him in place.

“You,” T.J. pants into Tom’s mouth, “are so fucking hot. I literally cannot even believe it.” He punctuates this with a hand down the back of Tom’s jeans, taking a hold of that sweet, sweet ass and giving it a squeeze. It’s not easy. Tom’s jeans are practically jeggings.

“You’ve said that so many times, dude,” Tom says, breathless laughter turning into a moan as T.J. nips at the swell of his trapezius.

“It’s true,” T.J. tells him, muffled against the juncture of Tom’s neck and shoulder. “Let me take you home.” Jonny’s just going to have to go to Patrick’s. Call it reparations for making T.J. sit in the library until 1 a.m. at least twice a week since getting together.

“Or,” Tom says, thighs spreading to accommodate T.J. more comfortably, “we could just go upstairs? To my room? Because this is my house?”

“Oh,” says T.J. He really has so much to catch up on, here. “Yeah, that sounds good, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> ♫ Won't you come on over, baby, we can shake, shake, shake ♫


End file.
